I'm a mum of 4, but I'm so much more than that. This blog is a glimpse into my mad world-the frustrations, joys and heartache of raising 4 kiddies, one of whom is particularly special, and trying not to lose myself along the way. Join me on my journey, I promise it'll be a hell of a ride!

Wednesday, 4 September 2013

The End Is Nigh

Tomorrow a new era begins in my household; my youngest child
is starting full time school. In response to this milestone many kind hearted
and clearly superior parents a few years down the road keep telling me how much
I’ll miss my little darling and how hard it is to woefully lament the loss of
those early childhood years. Sparkly eyed they talk about those lovely days of
bonding; crafting home-baked cosiness, creating salt-dough Donatellos and
finger paint Picassos and bending my ear with rose-tinted nostalgia.

They say time is the ultimate healer, which I’m firmly
inclined to believe given the ease these people can pluck beautiful memories
from their pre-school wonder days. I, however, am still far too close to the
sharp focus reality. It’s like me four
years on telling pregnant people that “it really doesn’t hurt all that much”
with regard to squeezing a wriggling squirming person out of your very small
tight space down there. The reality is it hurts like hell, but my memories have
been blurred over the years by the soft lines of time and I’m now in a place to
pass on my obnoxious (and inaccurate) pearls of wisdom to those unfortunate
enough to ask.

I love my kids, don’t get me wrong, but ten years of doing
the exact same thing 24:7 would have anyone bolting for the nearest escape
route. Screaming, vomit and poo featured on a daily basis throughout that time,
and I would like to remind those lovely people (intent on guilt tripping me
into some sense of enormous loss) of the realities which have so easily morphed
into wistful wonder.

Those early awkward days of breastfeeding in public whereby
attempting to maintain your dignity invariably ends up in some sort of crazy
baby-boob-blanket entanglement. The baby
is still hungry as you battle the blanket and cries so hard that your milk
comes in and sprays, from your indecently exposed breast, the customer casually
enjoying a quiet coffee on the opposite table. Er, so sorry, looked like you
needed a bit more milk in that sir. Here to help.

Food shopping with a toddler and baby in tow- for those
readers with kids, I don’t need to elaborate, but for the sake of you without,
I will! You’ve managed to transport the kids safely across the car park to the
trolleys when you realise with dismay you need a pound to access aforementioned
trolley. Halfway back to the car to retrieve the necessary coinage your potty
training toddler decides they need the toilet. Rushing inside, you abandon all
trolley-napping attempts and make it to the toilet just in time for your
toddler to pee all over the floor, pants and trousers still intact. Catching
your reflection in the mirror you realise the baby has thrown up down your back
and one handedly you attempt washing and drying of wet clothes in the Tesco
sink. Your toddler whines at the wet trousers as soon as you put them back on
and you find yourself in the café using underhand bribery techniques to ensure
two minutes peace to feed your now-screaming baby (see above!) Satisfied, the
baby poos up the entire of their back, and being the organised mother you are
you have no spare clothes, but determination kicks in and you swear you’ll finish
this trip if it’s the last thing you do. Three hours later and you leave the
shop with a random array of items chosen mostly by your toddler. Explaining to
your husband why he has figs on toast for the rest of the week will not be
easy….

One word- baking. My particular toddlers insisted on doing
everything themselves; reading the recipe, collating the ingredients, mixing,
stirring and most importantly, cracking the eggs. Now you may at this moment in
time be picturing a cosy scene of quality parent-child interaction, pleasant
smells wafting from the oven and love permeating the air. The reality? I Can
Cook (a kiddies cooking show for the less Cbeebies literate of you out there)
is replaced by Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares. With marginally less swearing. The
kitchen looks like a bake-bomb has exploded; there is more eggshell than egg in
the mix, I’ve lost my toddler in the flour haze and when I eventually find her,
she’s eating sugar from the bag with a spoon.
Enough said.

I could go on and on; screaming tantrums in restaurants,
inappropriate and mouthy comments (by both myself and my kids in case you were
wondering), sticky PVA and cotton wool
based ‘craft’, vomitous car journeys, incessant unanswerable questions, convoy
loo trips and constant explanations to in-laws as to why their grandchildren
are not naughty, they’re ‘spirited.’

Ten years and four kids on I’m exhausted, depleted and ready
for a change. I’m excited to go to the toilet alone; to drink a hot cup of tea;
to have an uninterrupted adult conversation and to choose for the first time in
years what to do with my time. But this journey has had it’s viewpoints along
the way too. I’m more patient and less stressy, I’ve laughed harder and cried
deeper than ever before, I’ve learned to appreciate my kids for just the
awesome little people they are, and, most importantly I’ve learned what it is
to truly love. Sacrifice, heartache, joy, sorrow and giving more of myself than
I ever even knew was in me to start with. I can honestly say I wouldn’t swap
that experience, with all it’s trials and tribulations, for the world.

The end is nigh and for me that is freaking awesome. Bring
on the new era of chaos. Come on life, I dare you.